Mitt Romney

Admit it, you’re jealous of the glory that is me. What? You’re not jealous of me, you say? You will be when you take a look at this:

I’m getting one for my mom because she’ll think it’s only mildly disturbingly quirky. I’m getting one for my mother-in-law because she’ll actually believe me when I tell her it’s the detached head from the voodoo doll I made of her. Mwahahaha…

If you want your own quirky detached head, go look at mysweetnovember.com. The zombie Elvis cameo is truly awe-inspiring. I really wish this was a paid advertisement for those people, but sadly, no.

In related news, this necklace tickled my funny bone (get it?) because I’m weird like that. Here is further evidence of my bizarre sense of humor, so check out the stuff I pinned on my Pinterest board. The baby in the tux gets me every damn time.

Like this:

Here's a photo of the growth on my face.
A few blog posts ago I let my readers decide for the doctor whether or not the thing on my face is cancer. I am pleased to share with you the results of the poll. While only one asshat voted for it to actually be cancer (and I’m pretty sure that voter was my brother who still hasn’t gotten over the fact that I lost one of his Matchbox cars in 1976), it was just a little weird that a large number of voters actually wanted this red, irregularly shaped splotch to be Mitt Romney. I was uber-pleased by the number of commenters who said, “I voted for it to be Mitt Romney because that will be the only time I ever vote for that man.” Basically, I’m taking one for the team and agreeing to have Mitt Romney growing out of control on my face so you can be responsible and save America. It’s an even trade.

But now the clock is actually ticking and I’m supposed to go see the doctor in a few days to decide if it’s cancer or Mitt Romney, and if those are my only two choices I’m going to have to mull it over and get back to you. I can’t really bring myself to say, “Oh sure, doc, let’s call this thing cancer!” but I also can’t commit to being stuck with Mitt Romney even for four years, let alone for the rest of my life. (note: I could be willing to agree to it being Mitt Romney if I get to hear the doctor say, “I know how to fix this. We’re going to freeze Mitt, burn Mitt with these hot zappy little electrodes, pour chemicals on Mitt, then finally scrape him off with this putty knife. There won’t be anything left of Mitt Romney when we’re through with him!”) (different note: I think I’m going to be put on some watch list now for saying that I want a presidential candidate frozen, zapped, poisoned, and scraped.)

While I’ve been walking around with this cancerous Mitt Romney stuck to my face, my husband has been amazingly supportive, saying things like, “Oh, it’s hardly noticeable. I wouldn’t even bother with the doctor if I were you. Have you tried some Neosporin?” Because you know they make Neosporin in chemotherapy-strength now.

But last night when we discussed the potential for cancer, he said the most romantic-yet-stupid-assed thing I’ve ever heard: “If you lose your nose to cancer, I won’t leave you.”

Um. Yeah. I wasn’t really thinking about the possibility of a) losing my entire nose or b) my marriage crumbling and my children being fatherless because of a Mitt Romney growing on my face. But it’s good to know that he won’t abandon our entire family if I become deformedly ugly. Thanks a pantsload, Mitt Romney.